


Little Black Submarines

by xwoman



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Charles Xavier in a Wheelchair, Disabled Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Mutant Powers, Mutant Rights, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Threats of Violence, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-19 09:47:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22809145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xwoman/pseuds/xwoman
Summary: "Treasure maps, fallen trees, operator, please call me back when it's time. Stolen friends and disease, operator, please patch me back to my mind."AU: In a dystopian future there are two types of people; mutants and non-mutants. It's as simple as that.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	1. Mud

Upon half-waking, Charles found himself face down in the mud. Wet dirt caked on his lips and in his teeth. He automatically cursed himself for having gone to the rally at all.

As he grew more coherent, his pain only became more significant. Between the pain in his ribs and in his back, he felt like his body was on fire, burning steadily against the wet pavement. Even the slightest movement charred his body and left his bones aching.

He cursed himself again, only out loud this time, with nothing more than trash and oil and dirt for company. He cursed himself for having not listened to Raven, for not having left well enough alone. So much was his fear of movement that he would rather struggle to breathe laying on his stomach the way he was, sputtering desperately into a nasty puddle of oil and water, trying his best not to inhale it.

God, he had really fucked up this time. With each movement, however slight, his lower back screamed, and he recalled breathlessly the feeling of boots connecting with the small of his back and with his ribs, Charles also recalled a possible blow to his head before he had hit the ground. Only evidenced by the slight taste of blood on his upper lip.

Charles tried to recall the mugging but found that his memory was scattered unreliably across the last thirty minutes. Only pieces of memory floating out in space. From the very corner of his eye, he saw his cell phone, a recent text gleaming in yellow light. A godsend that his assailants had left it behind. He removed a hand slowly from his ribs, roving his hand outward he found himself gritting his teeth at the effort alone, each rib outlined in pain. But he didn’t dare move further, as he was certain he could feel the outline of a large bruise growing steadily across his lower back, becoming larger, and more painful by the minute. Charles hissed, the phone was, of course, just out of reach, and he felt himself pulling his arm back, taking in deep breaths in between bouts of pain, in an attempt to slow his racing heart.

Why had he gone to the rally?

After some time, Charles reached out again, trying his hardest to extend his reach, but soon recoiled in agony, as a heinous lightning bolt of pain shot across his back. His vision swam so he lay still for some length of time as the dirty water stained his favorite cardigan. He was beginning to realize something might actually be wrong as he found it was increasingly hard to move. As more time passed, he began to shiver.

Knowing he couldn’t reach his phone he tried to use voice activation but remembered quite quickly that his phone had to be locked or dead after so long.

It began to dawn on him that if he didn’t reach his phone he might actually die in that alley. But each movement was agony and nausea grew like a balloon in his throat. With just his arms he carefully dragged himself across the ground, all the while a sense of loneliness and desperation swirling around in his head, his telepathy had been made meager by what had to have been a concussion. Even as he moved inches at a time his vision grew darker.

After about another foot he finally reached his phone, still horribly apprehensive to move at all but finding he had very little choice. Unable to use his telepathy to call for help he had to get to his damn phone. But an unsettling fact grew on him even as he unlocked his phone with a shaky hand, the pain in his back snaking away down the back of his legs. And only intensifying with each motion, regardless of how slight. He cursed himself even as he dialed Erik’s number, the pain in the back of his legs making its way around to the front, and transitioning from burning to a tingling. His lower body was full of white noise like he’d turned on channel three.

He thought that was probably bad. His bruised back protesting with every second that passed.

Erik’s phone rang, and rang, and rang. And Charles prayed he’d pick up as unconsciousness blossomed across his brain. But after a few more rings and a redial Charles heard Erik’s rough voice on the other end and it threatened to pull him apart. Charles realized he was terrified. 

“Charles?” Erik’s voice came through on speakerphone. Charles barely had the strength to speak, from pain, from fear, from guilt, “Charles? Are you okay?”

Charles all but cried, “I’m hurt.” He managed between breaths, and then he shifted, accidentally, and felt the horrific feeling of his lower body dropping away into an incredibly painful nothingness, “I’m hurt bad.”

Charles could’ve heard a pin drop, but instead heard Erik swear in his native tongue. Charles found it oddly comforting, “Show me where you are. I’m coming, I’m coming now. Don’t move.”

"concussion…” was all he could manage, but Erik knew what that meant.

Erik swore again, “Look around, can you see where you are?”

Charles was silent for a few moments, gathering himself, “I... was jumped…”

“Charles where? You went, didn’t you?”

Charles only managed a muffled cry of pain, frustration, and regret.

Erik knew where the rally had been held, and he had begged Charles not to go without him there, “I’m coming. Stay where you are.”

But Charles knew he wasn’t going anywhere, even if he wanted to.


	2. Bone

Erik slammed his cell on the counter, on second thought pocketed it, and shoved his way through the swinging door that separated the storefront from the metal shop. He ripped his hard hat from his head, tossing it into one of the customer chairs.

Just as he made it out the door his boss hollered at him, “Where do you think you’re going, Lehnsherr?”

Erik turned around, still standing in the doorway, “My friend was jumped, he needs help, and medical attention from the sounds of it.”

His boss eyed him warily, “You know I have to write you up if you leave right now,” Erik only grumbled under his breath, “One more wright up after this and you’re out. And I know you need this job. All mutants need work these days.”

“Look,” Erik said, trying to keep his voice level, “write me up, but you and I both know you can’t do this job without me. Whether or not you admit needing my help is a different story.” Angrily, Erik pulled the door shut and stalked out into the street.

An orange sky settled on the darkening cityscape. Erik found his mind racing. _How bad was he hurt? Was it just a concussion? Was he bleeding to death?_ Erik’s paced quickened. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Charles’ number. It only rang. After he called Charles another three times it became apparent that he either wasn’t able to pick up the phone or wasn’t conscious.

As he passed another piece of anti-mutant propaganda, he tore it from the building. “Fuck,” he hissed, beginning to run, "Fuck." If Charles wasn’t near to where he thought he was then Erik might lose it right there in the street. Charles didn't sound like he had time to be tracked down. As he grew closer more loose-leaf propaganda drifted in the street. Small fires burned, spray paint cans, wet cardboard signs, face masks, "Fuck." 

All the streetlights came on.

Erik passed another alley, growing closer to where the mutant-rights rally had been held, looking down each alley, each side street, and suddenly he noticed a crumpled ball of a brown cardigan, barely illuminated in the growing darkness. His breath caught in his chest. He could barely breathe.

Erik slid to a halt, moving then, as fast as he could. Charles’ form was face down, unmoving, Erik bit his fist and then called out, “Charles!” But Charles didn’t move.

Then Erik was there, brushing Charles’ messy hair from his face, knelt in the grime, “Charles,” Erik’s voice shook, “Hey, wake up,” he ran his hand along Charles’ face only to reveal some bruising.

Charles came to, but only barely. He reached out to grip Erik’s hand, crying slightly. Charles felt a crushing sense of vulnerability as he gripped Erik’s hand in his, his only lifeline, as he drifted in and out of consciousness, now fully unable to move.

“What hurts?” Erik asked, gripping Charles’ cold, wet hand, “Can you get up?” Erik knew though, that if Charles could get up, or even sit up, he wouldn’t be laying in the mud like that.

“Ribs. Back.”

Erik moved to palpate Charles’ ribs, each touch eliciting pain, then running his fingers gently along Charles’ spine. Gently, gently, moving slowly lower. Then a scream of pain and Erik recoiled, “I’m sorry,” squeezing Charles’ leg, “I’m sorry. Can I pull your shirt up? I need to look.” Carefully, Erik lifted Charles’ sweater, afraid that a single touch might undo him, hands beginning to shake as he saw the bruise there. Blood was pooling under the skin; a range of purple and black discoloration had settled on his back and hips. Erik’s brain jumped from relatively minor wounds, and maybe a broken rib, to a spinal cord injury so fast he thought he might vomit.

Erik knew he had to ask but he was so afraid of the answer that he only knelt there, Charles’ shirt still pulled up, staring down at the horrific bruising, thoughts racing.

“Charles?”

Charles made a slight noise, “Is it bad?”

Erik bit his lip, the scene starting to add up, “Um…” Erik found himself preparing a lie but a bitter taste stopped him, “Charles I’m…I’m worried you might…” Erik’s hands shook with anger, whoever had done this would certainly get away with it. Erik’s hands shook also with the fear that he was probably staring down at a life-changing injury. Erik cleared his throat, his mind jumping to violent conclusions, trying to remember the first aid he was supposed to administer. He could see Raven in his mind’s eye, slapping him across the face for not protecting her brother, he could hear Hank telling Erik that if he’d gotten to Charles sooner then maybe…

Then maybe Charles would…no. No, Erik would not allow himself to consider what-ifs.

Erik shook his head clear. Looking again at Charles’ lower back, picturing boots, or a baseball bat, turning bone to dust. A hot rage filled Erik’s chest as he saw shattered bone crushing a delicate spinal cord.

Charles’ concussed telepathy grasped for something to latch onto, but only found Erik’s anxiety and his pounding heart, he managed, “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Charles,” Erik’s free hand settled on the back of Charles’ thigh, kneading, pinching, holding his breath, looking at Charles’ unmoving legs and wondering whether Charles was being careful not to move, or if he was unable. An image flashed across his mind, but he forced it away. By the time he had worked himself up enough to ask the question, he was nearly choking on worry, “Can you feel your legs?”

A silence passed that was a beat only, but felt like infinity.

Then, the world fell apart. Charles was crying, and Erik was panicking as he tried digging his phone out of his pocket. He heard himself tell Charles to keep as still as possible. Before he knew what he was doing, he heard Hank’s voice on the other end of the phone, and Charles was still crying in the background. He heard himself ask where the nearest mutant-friendly hospital was and knew Hank could hear his urgency. Hank was asking him what was going on. Erik tried to tell him without breaking down. Begged him to wait to call Raven.

Erik heard himself choke out, “He’s got some kind of fucking..." he cleared his throat again nervously, really not wanting Charles to hear him say it, but that was stupid Charles knew, of course he knew, how long had he been laying in this alley, unable to feel his legs, too long, " Some kind of fucking spinal cord injury,” but even as he said it, it sounded impossible. This kind of stuff didn’t happen in real life, not to real people. This kind of thing happened in movies.

It was getting darker, colder, and Charles wasn’t getting better.

Hank was asking him to describe the nature of the injury but Erik could barely speak. Picturing Charles in a wheelchair. What could he have possibly done to deserve this, being brutalized, left for dead? Charles, who had probably never laid a hand on anything in his entire life, let alone another person. His liebling left deliberately paralyzed, and for what? For being a _mutant?_ For being _gay_? Erik was ready to lose his goddamn mind. No, this couldn’t be happening. The rage returned, burning a hole in his chest, but he was running on autopilot and pressed the phone to Charles’ face so Hank could ask him questions.

Erik thought over their options, even if they could get Charles to the hospital, doctors were allowed to claim exemption of care. If they didn’t like mutants, they didn’t have to treat them, and the only people who liked mutants were mutants. They needed a mutant doctor. They needed an ambulance. They needed a backboard and a surgeon on call.

They didn’t have any of those things.


	3. Coffee

Ambulances had long since stopped navigating the streets of New York City, the roads were filled with burning trash and the rusting bodies of old metal cars. Most people who lived inside the city were mutants anyway. Everyone else, or at least mostly everyone else, save perhaps mutant sympathizers, lived quiet, relatively normal lives, in the suburbs of New York. Until that is, they decided to make their way into the city, to protest mutant rights, even though they barely had any as it was. They lived near the ocean, they had running water, they had heat, they had _doctors._

Hank, to no fault of his own, was the closest thing they had to a doctor. His chance of getting his medical license was stolen from him when it came to light that he was a mutant, indeed a brilliant one. Probably the smartest person Erik knew. And yet, here they were. 

Erik heard Charles tell Hank he hadn’t been able to feel his legs since he’d made the call to Erik nearly an hour ago, but more worrisome was that he hadn’t been able to move his legs since he’d regained consciousness over two hours ago. 

Erik tallied the chances in his head and they weren’t looking good. 

He heard Charles say it had started as pain and that the feeling had gone slowly and hadn’t come back. He heard Charles tell Hank that the men who had hurt him had knocked him down and kicked him until he lost consciousness. Charles was crying again and there wasn’t anything Erik could do. 

As it turns out Hank had been on his way since Erik had said the words spinal cord injury. He was about twenty minutes out and coming by car but occasionally having to stop to move debris from the road. All Erik could do now was sit next to Charles, hold his hand, and try and tell him that everything would be okay, even though he knew it wouldn’t. Nothing would be okay for a while. They sat together until the pale headlights of Hank’s old green Subaru bathed them in dirty light. 

Erik took another look at the bruising, now swollen. In better lighting, it only looked worse. Hank stepped from the car, leaving it running. Erik smoothed Charles' hair, whispering that Hank had arrived, that he’d feel better soon. In the distance, gunfire sounded. It made Erik flinch. 

“I brought Alex,” Hank said, joining them quickly. His lanky form moving through the headlights hurriedly, peering over Erik’s shoulder. 

Charles managed a painful thank you, gripping Erik’s hand tighter. Silently Erik pulled back Charles’ shirt for Hank to see. 

Hank’s face fell, he said, “I had hoped it wasn’t so bad as you made it sound,” he dropped a bag Erik hadn’t noticed Hank had been carrying and hollered for Alex to hurry up. His full focus on Charles now, “Charles,” he said, “I’m going to carefully pull up your pant legs. I just need to access your…well…I need to see if you have any feeling at all in your legs.”

“I don’t, Hank, please just, do something…”

Erik and Hank both looked to each other as pin-pricks elicited no response. Hank slowly removed one of Charles’ shoes and then the other. But asking Charles to push against his hand was useless, and everyone knew it. Hank’s frown only deepened. 

When they log rolled him onto the makeshift backboard, Charles cried out in pain, hand grasping wildly to Erik’s forearm, eyes wide and dilated in pain, one slightly larger than the other. Erik swallowed his fear, finding Charles’ hand again in his. Hank covered him in a thick blanket taking care to cover his sock-clad feet and tucking his shoes onto the board.

As they began to move him the pain and fear suddenly became too much. Charles slipped into warm unconsciousness.

They slid Charles into the tattered trunk space of the old car, Erik climbing in after him. As Alex shut the liftgate, Erik noticed numerous medical textbooks, having been tossed haphazardly, and one left open. _Prognosis and Treatment of Spinal Cord Injuries._ Erik began to sweat just looking at the open page.

\-----

Charles slept for two days. While his body focused on healing, Erik focused on preparing himself for the worst possible outcome. Hank busied himself with medical texts, the stack on the windowsill of Charles’ sickroom growing larger. Hank went in and out, checking Charles’ pulse with a gentle finger on his wrist. An old blood pressure cuff left indefinitely on Charles’ left bicep. Old coffee cups piled high, stained with instant espresso. Erik stayed steadfast; an old cot parked next to the small twin bed where Charles slept.

As he expected, Raven came home, at the end of those horrible two days, a duffle bag of medical supplies gripped in her left hand. Skin rippling violently, she tore a surgical mask from her face, clad in used scrubs, and slapped Erik harder than she probably should’ve. Erik took the first one but grabbed her wrist as she moved to slap him again. He pulled her against him as she sobbed.

“Did you steal that stuff?” He asked in between her hitching cries.

Raven only nodded, “Hank said we needed it.”

Their reunion interrupted as Hank whisked in, pen in his mouth, took the bag from her hand, and said, “We do need it. Now give the man some privacy.”

Erik and Raven were forced into the front hall of their aged apartment building.

“Nice scrubs,” Erik said, finding himself unable to say much else.

Raven laughed sadly, wiping tears from her face, “thanks,” she said.

After a few minutes more of awkward silence, Erik looked drowsily at the overstuffed couch in the living room, the air saturated with dusty light, “I’m sorry, Raven, he…” a pause, “he went without me, I had to work, I told him not to…”

She sighed defeatedly, “That’s his problem, he doesn’t listen to anybody.”

“No,” Erik agreed, “you’re right about that,” he gave a sidelong glance at the still steaming kettle, thought about coffee, “Do you want coffee, Raven?”

“God yes.”

Before long they were sipping at two paper cups of hot black coffee. Erik was growing more uneasy as the time passed with the bedroom door shut. Thinking they should be in the hospital, nasty fluorescent lighting blinding them, surrounded by hospital smells and listening to the loud monitors in the background. Instead, they were standing in the entryway to the small apartment the four of them shared, which only had electricity half of the time. Instead of a trauma response team, they had a doctor without a medical license and a bag of stolen medical supplies. Erik supposed it was better than nothing.

As twenty minutes passed, Erik had had enough waiting. He moved to knock on the door, only to have it opened suddenly, Hank in the process of removing nitrile gloves from his hands, sleeves now rolled up above his elbows.

He looked past Erik to Raven, her eyes red and tired, and said: “Did you bring the chair?”

Erik’s stomach, which had been empty save for low-quality instant coffee, churned. Of course, they needed a chair, a wheelchair he realized after a moment, he heard Raven's breath catch in her throat. He looked past Hank only to make heart-wrenching eye contact with Charles. Erik shoved Hank to the side forcefully, sliding past him to get closer to Charles. He was awake, though he looked exhausted, consumed by mortality, Erik discerned, as Charles' telepathy reestablished itself. Crushed by the awareness that bad things did, in fact, happen to good people, and shaken to learn that that bad thing had happened to him. 

_I’m sorry, Charles, I love you._


End file.
